


like a dog inspires a rabbit

by LinhamonRoll



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Torture, hes tied up by the neck at one point, like its heavily implied, of screen major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinhamonRoll/pseuds/LinhamonRoll
Summary: Keefe had done an amzing job of escaping his mom. No one knew both his real name and his location. Yet mistakes get made
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a torture fic, with no comfort. please read at your own risks. additional warnings in the beginning of each chapter

It was a calm, warm night. Keefe could still feel the sun on his skin even though it was now long gone, a few hours after midnight, and had been replaced since by the orange glow common to streetlights. Hadn't it been for them, he could have pretended he was still in the house of his childhood, in the countryside, where he could see the numerous stars piercing the sky, the only sound being the wind through the woods just outside the domain. There, in the city, he could hear the cars from a mile away, shredding through the night from one place to the other on the wet asphalt. 

Still, he didn't miss Candleshade. What was there to miss when he couldn't remember the layout of the rooms, of the floors even. When he couldn't remember farther than when he left. The few memories from there that hadn't been slowly destroyed never outweighed the bad he might not remember, but knew had taken place in this house, in these walls. 

He put his hands inside his pockets and started to head back home. It wasn't much, nowhere near the lux he had basked in for most of his life, yet he preferred it over there any day. It might have been a crappy studio, where the walls were probably home to families of rodents, and he never had hot water, but it was _his_. It was his, and it was his best chance at staying out of his mother's reach. 

He stepped into the entrance and didn't bother using the rug to remove the water from under his soles, the floor just as wet inside. He replaced the bowl supposed to catch the drops of the leak in the ceiling and took a moment to leave the landlady a note on what type of bucket she should probably get for the leak, and where exactly she could find it. He climbed the stairs up to his floor, creaking and sticking to his feet more than usual because of the water left from the rain in mid-afternoon. 

As warm as it had been outside, despite the humidity, the building was cold, the water seeping into the walls and acting as an unnecessary, smelly air conditioning system. Keefe removed his shoes before getting into his apartment. Maybe he couldn't stop the infiltration, but at least he could stop the mud from getting inside. His socks were soaked. He removed those as well. 

The door was hard to unlock, as it always was, the key taking a few good shoves and a dozen tries to spin, but that was how he liked it. It meant probably no one had gotten in. A shiver of uneasiness spread through him as he reached for the handle to find it dry. 

Maybe he should have thought more of it. A year before he would have. But as it was, that night, he felt pretty confident about his chances. He didn't have anyone who would notice right away he was gone, but Joe from the bar down the street would probably send someone check he hadn't drunk himself to death in a few days, and Miss Chan in the drugstore would maybe come see the landlady to ask about 'the boy who feed the cats' after a while. No one knew both his real name and his location, and he liked it that way. He turned the handle and opened the door.

He was welcomed by a gust of warm air, and he tensed up. He never, _never_ left the window opened, much less the heat on. This wasn't routine, and he didn't like it. His hand closed around the switchblade in his pocket. “Is anyone here ?” he asked the room. There was no use being quiet. He'd already made so much noise. If someone was there, they knew Keefe was too.

Slowly, his eyes scanned the room, taking in every single detail from the spices on the shelf he could use to blind an opponent to the pens in a bowl he could use to stab anyone who had climbed in by the very much opened window. Keefe didn't make mistakes. He _couldn't_ make mistakes, because if he misstepped just once his mother's men would find him. He had closed this window. He always did. 

Nothing happened. He kept his guard high and nothing happened. He closed the window and nothing happened. He double-checked his room and nothing happened. He locked his bathroom from the outside and nothing happened. Nothing happened, nothing happened, nothing happened. 

Nothing happened and Keefe took a breath. He heard a step, turned around. He saw the door. He gasped. His hand moved on its own. The world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slight blood, brant

Keefe did not open his eyes to a dark room and massive headache. He didn't wake with a start, making his restraints dig into his wrists. He didn't start crying as he realized what had happened. No. He had played this scenario in his head, _been_ in this scenario before. This was the time when making such _stupid_ mistakes as not closing a door would not fly. This was the time he had to keep himself from despair as he realized he'd have to start all over again. He kept his eyes shut and his head low and waited.

He waited, and he didn't know what for. He didn't know who found him, who would try to do...whatever his mother had ordered them to do. He hoped he could escape faster than he had the first time, when he'd had to last three days before the men made a big enough mistake for him to get his skin out of there. This time, he had experience, though. This time, he would get out faster. 

He tried not to twitch as he took in the different aching parts of his body. His wrists, where the strands of the rough ropes lodged themselves under his skin, a thin stream of blood trickling down to his shoulders, over extended by his weight dangling from the ceiling, and his head, still pounding on the side where he had been hit. His toes were just barely grazing the floor, offering no respite for his arms. They would give out soon, the lack of blood flow helping with the slow tearing of tendons and muscles. Already, he was pretty sure his left shoulder was out of its socket.

Keefe waited as long as possible before opening his eyes. It was only logic. They had already waited for some time without getting out the big guns in his sleep, they would wait more. Would give him more time to prepare himself for whatever they had out there. 

He breathed in the rancid air of a room he knew by heart, that he didn't even need to see to recognize. The scent of cigarettes in the air suffocated him, added to... well everything else. They hadn't even bothered moving him from his studio. The lump in his throat grew. He closed his eyes as tight as he could under the blindfold, keeping the tears that threatened to spill out in. This was the beginning. He couldn't allow himself to show weakness. His captors were not afraid Miss Chan or Joe would bust in. That either meant they thought they didn't care enough to check, or had bribed them to keep their questions to themselves, or something had happened to them and it was Keefe's fault. He hoped with all of his heart that they had been bribed. 

“Well well well. Look who's awake.” his mind blanked. No. he could deal with minions, he could deal with the little hands who hoped they'd make themselves a name with his mother by being the ones to finally, finally get her son back. He could deal with them and he had. Multiple times already. But not him. He didn't need to see for him to recognize that voice and for once he was glad for the blindfold. He couldn't deal with this face, with the direct result of what torture like this could do to a person. 

Brant chuckled. “Aren't you happy to see me ?” Keefe snarled at him. He tutted. “None of that, wouldn't want to make me mad, would you ?” he felt the finger curl into his skin, nail cutting into his cheek, drawing blood. It trickled down his chin fast enough he could assume the cut wasn't just a graze. He held back the urge to spit in his face. 

“Fuck you,” he said instead. Brant slapped him. 

“I hope you learn to respect me after she gets here.” Keefe took a step back, almost falling off the stool he was on. He cursed under his breath and Brant laughed at him. The burning stub of a cigarette was pressed to the underside of his arm, and he bit back a hiss before he was alone once more. Or at least he assumed he was alone, since he couldn't hear Brant move anymore, but who knew ? His sight gone he couldn't tell if people were currently watching him, shaking at the mere thought of his mother, if they'd make it a running gag among themselves. 

He wished he could sit and curl up on himself, far away from the invisible eyes. 


End file.
